Kiss the Girl
by Pied Piper
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, and he's paying her one last visit.


**Kiss the Girl**

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It's New Year's Eve, and he's paying her a visit.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Title's not mine, either.

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I am so fucking high. 

I know, I know—this isn't like me. And you're right. Sometimes I barely recognize myself in the mirror.

Did I tell you I got a new mirror? Yeah, one of those old-fashioned oval ones, with the wooden frames. Has some stuff carved on it, but it's kind of faded now. Garage sale. Or maybe flea market. They're all the same, though, let's admit it.

The old one broke.

My fault.

I was rearranging the bedroom, you know, moving things around. Place feels smaller now, strange as it sounds. Yeah, yeah, I know it doesn't make sense. But I'm not losing any sleep over it. Don't expect you to be thinking about it, though. I'm sure you've got more important things to care about now, right?

Sorry.

I didn't mean that.

Look—I said I was sorry, right?

I am.

And I'm sorry about your mirror, too. Didn't mean to let it fall. I was trying to move the dresser and—well, you can guess what happened. But it's okay. Not like you liked it, right?

Okay, so you did like it.

I can get it fixed for you.

You sure?

I don't mind.

All right. But if you change your mind—

But you should see the new mirror. It's pretty big. Kinda looks out of place now, with everything I've got crowding the place, but…it happens. I'm not really into interior decoration, anyway. You know that.

I know you know. That's why I'm telling you.

We don't have to talk about mirrors if you don't want to. Okay.

Change the subject.

I'm not going first. You go.

Fine.

No, I don't have plans for tomorrow. I'm working all day, filling in for a friend who's taking his wife on a second honeymoon. Yeah, I knew you'd coo over that. It's really not all that sweet, you know. It's going to put him straight into debt; he can't afford that kind of extravagance, not on the salaries we get paid. I tried to tell him that, but he said it'd be worth it. Wonder what he'll think in ten years when the divorce papers get filed.

I'm not being mean. I'm being honest. Haven't you seen the divorce rates lately? Half of society is predestined for marital doom. Fact of life.

I'm not being mean.

Fine, I'll drop it.

I don't mind being alone. You know me. I can handle that.

You left me because of that, remember?

Sorry.

I'll drop it.

It's just….

Never mind.

I'm glad you're happy.

I really am.

I realize I'm hopelessly drunk right now, but lying right here beside you, I can honestly say I'm happy for you. I want you to be happy. I'd kill for you to be happy. And I did, didn't I? I killed us. Didn't mean to, but it happens, doesn't it?

I didn't mean it that way.

I don't mean a lot of things I say.

Habit, you know.

Picked up right after—well, you know.

Easier to deal with things, I guess, if you can learn to lie to yourself.

Like, for example, I know for a fact that more than anything in the whole fucking world, I want to kiss you when the clock strikes twelve, but it's easier for me to lie to myself by being reminded how you always used to fall asleep on my shoulder right around eleven and you wouldn't wake up no matter how many times I tried shaking you because you'd been so excited all day that you just burned out and—poof! There you go. Snoring.

Yeah, you snore.

What, you think Little Miss Perfect is incapable of that kind of stuff?

You're just like the rest of us common folk, you know. Just that you're richer.

You told me once you didn't mind not having money. Back then, remember?

We'd just broke in the new twin sized bed, because that was the only kind we could get in our budget and we had to sleep scrunched up and awkward, except neither of us got much sleep those first few nights, did we?

I promised you that next year, you wouldn't have to wear the same blouse to work three times a week, that I was going to work as hard as I could to get you everything you wanted, because I hated that I couldn't even do that—I couldn't even give you the life you wanted, the life I wanted for us. I hated that, still do.

Guess I don't have to worry about you not having everything anymore.

Bet you're real happy now, what with not having to compromise when all you wanted was a new dress to wear on your birthday.

Now you can have a million new dresses, every fucking day of the year, if you wanted.

Do you still want that kind of stuff?

Bet you haven't changed at all.

Bet you still sleep through the countdown every year. Bet you still eat ice cream by the pint when Spencer Tracey movies play on the tube late at night. Bet you still kiss with your whole body, not just your lips, and I bet it'd still feel like everything I can't stop dreaming about since you left me.

Don't start that, you're telling me now.

But I can't stop.

I haven't stopped.

No one told me how.

And—oh, God, I fucking miss you so much.

Don't know how much longer I can stand this, can take this. Don't want it to be another year already. Don't want the world to spin so fast, to move so fast like this. Don't want the time to go by when I don't have anyone to share it with. Don't want to share tonight with anyone but you. Don't want to move on because I don't want to share any night with anyone but you. Don't want to stop missing you—don't want to forget. Don't want to go through all this again, not for another year, not another year, oh God—oh God, it can't be another year already, how did it happen like that, how did it end so suddenly, how did I just lose everything like that, lose you like that—I wasn't ready and I don't want to do this anymore.

Make it stop.

Could you, please? I don't care how. Just—

Before the end of the year, before the clock strikes, kiss me one more time, okay? Come back and kiss me, one last time, okay?

Okay?

Ready?

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two—

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**Author's Note**: Had a couple in mind when I wrote this, but it could be just about whatever you like. Thanks for putting up with my randomness.

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